Workmen

Although I'm trying to be positive as I forge my new life as a widow, I'm frustrated with certain undeveloped aspects of my personality. No one taught me how to be a force in the world, but professionally I've done alright. It's another story when I need to be a force in my own home, particularly when my home is invaded by the world, that is, by unfamiliar workmen. From my mother and the culture of the '50s and '60s, I learned the skills and benefits of being a good hostess and helpmate, but what I learned was for a different time and circumstance.

Do I offer them coffee and stand by, ready to hand them their wrenches upon request, as I used to do for my father and then for Al? Do I leave them to their work and check in from time to time to see how they're doing? And here's the most difficult for me--how do I tell them when something is wrong or not to my liking?  Internally I have to tune up and adjust my tone before my voice actually hits the air. Too angry. Too apologetic. Too placating. Too macho. I swerve from one extreme to the other until I manage to find just the right note.

It's a question of feeling my own will and power in relation to a stranger in my house. Tone is just a part of it. I don't know how to keep my vision of a project, pay a fair price, and command respect. Smile and accommodate--that's my instinct. And yet I can sense a clearer, stronger part of me trapped inside the fake mannerisms, watching in shocked silence while I'm moved to please instead of be pleased.

Take last night when my yoga teacher's son called me to see about doing some chores for me. It wasn't that late, but I was in bed reading and had let down my guard for the day. I had never met him, but reacted immediately to his gruff voice on the telephone. When he said he had some time the next day, I scurried downstairs to get my calendar, even though I knew mornings were supposed to be devoted to writing, and in the afternoon I had a doctor's appointment. I was also meeting a friend for dinner near the town where I had my appointment. But I hurried to check on the exact time. Why? To see if I could squeeze him in, rushing back from my busy day to accommodate his schedule.

He's a 19-year old college student, whose mother told me he could use the money while he's home on break. I'm a college professor. But when that apparent relationship went unrecognized by the boy, who had initiated the call, my impulse was to find another way to connect with him on his terms.

His disembodied voice sounded deep and surprisingly mature. I guess that's what tipped me over into the grateful, flexible damsel in distress. I tried to gain some poise as I read my calendar, which confirmed what I already knew. Tomorrow was not possible, but the next three days were entirely free.

Back upstairs I paused to catch my breath before I picked up the phone again. The cord was all tangled. "I can't do tomorrow. I have a doctor's appointment. How about Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday?" I sniffed. (Somewhere along the way, my nose had started running.) "Sorry," I added, not sure if I meant about the time or the sniffing.

"Well, I'm busy," he started, sounding more annoyed than before. "On Wednesday I have to bring my car in to have my tires rotated." He hesitated. "I can come on Wednesday afternoon."

That's how long it took me to get it--that I was talking to a sulking boy whose mother had told him to take a job when all he wanted to do was relax and have fun during his winter break. I was hearing a petulant kid whose voice was in a lower key, but that deep male voice on the telephone knocked me back through the years. It wasn't even Al's voice I was reacting to. It was my stern father's.

I have to laugh at myself. The lessons just keep on coming. As does life, which comes at me, whether I want it to or not, beckoning me to live and learn while I'm still here. I've been ignoring it long enough. So now that I get the picture and remember who I am and what I need to accomplish this week, I'll make a plan. I'll put together a list of chores. And when he calls on Wednesday to confirm, as he said he would, I'll ask him for his hourly rate, which I forgot to do. And I'll be ready--as ready as a woman raised to accede to men can be. If his rate is too high, I'll...what? Say so and negotiate? Pay him what he asks and then not hire him again? Pay exactly for time worked and not round off to the higher hour?

These were all of the strategies I observed Al using over the years. Shielded by him, I had the luxury of being far more nit picky than he was. He compromised quality to quickness more than suited my taste. But what did I know? I compromised quality to freedom. Even when he'd talk to me about his negotiations, I'd tune him out. (Although I remember once he handed a workman half of a twenty-dollar bill he'd just ripped, and said, "You'll get the other half when you finish the job right and on time.")

I no longer have the luxury of judging the workmanship while keeping the workman at a distance. When I need work done, I have to do it myself or hire someone to do it. And I can no longer expect that hiring someone means that the work will be done well, in a timely manner, or at all. In fact, I should expect just the opposite. Maybe once in a while I'll be pleasantly surprised.

It's aggravating, but necessary, and it surely aggravated Al at times too. In fact, I know it did. He'd tell me so, and I'd get that glazed look in my eyes, and he'd change the subject.

But the arrangement suited us because he liked the control more than he minded the aggravation, whereas I was happy to give up both. When, occasionally, I complained about the quality of the work, he'd say, "Then you take over." That was all it would take to stop that train of thought.

Now I'm the only game in town, and my pickiness has free reign. I suspect I'll begin having some respect for compromise as the projects continue, as they must do. I'm being forced to grow up and learn how to deal. I'll have to develop and train new instincts, and do what works best for me--prepare in advance. Al's way was on-site inspiration. I'm not made that way. It's prepared lists and voice adjustments for me. But I have to admit, there's something exciting about developing new life skills at this stage in my life.